


The Same

by RBCQ



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drugs, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8270443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RBCQ/pseuds/RBCQ
Summary: They really were the same, deep down, just two people riding high on a wave of good fortune, distracting themselves from the inevitable end with drugs and alcohol and trade.





	

Courtney and Willam were very similar in a lot of ways. Albeit, they were different in many ways, too, like how Willam ate whatever was put in front of her (especially if it was an ass), but Courtney at least _tried_ to eat healthier, or how they had vastly different deliveries of jokes. But at the end of the day, the differences didn't matter so much - at the end of the day, they both sat in front of a mirror for hours every week, painting their faces with an amalgamation of makeup that not even the most daring of women would wear. They performed on stage for a living, spending half their lives on trains or planes or buses, traveling to wherever their next gig was, rinse and repeat. At the end of the day, they were both going to bed as the sun was rising, fucked up and post-fuck, not looking forward to the hangover the morning would bring. But they got up and did it all again, night after night, like they were masochists of some sort, willing to endure whatever it was the day held for them.

 

They really were the same, deep down, just two people riding high on a wave of good fortune, distracting themselves from the inevitable end with drugs and alcohol and trade. Sure, Willam was a lot more loud and brash, but there was something to be said for Courtney's ever-bubbly disposition. They made quite the pair, too - Willam, in her blue eyeshadow and barely-there outfits, skirt short enough to hardly constitute as an article of clothing, and Courtney, with her short beach-blonde hair and too-white smile. Of course, when nobody was looking, it didn't matter - the twin lamps at the head of the hotel bed, turned off now (but never turned on in the first place) didn't care what color their lipstick was, nor do they care what color it is now, mixed together on each other's lips. The perfectly one-color, bland brown carpet didn't care what clothes were discarded onto it, so long as they were picked up again in the morning, which they always were. With the curtains closed and the lights off, what happened didn't matter, because the second it was light again, they'd go back to doing the same exact thing they did every day.

 

Courtney was drunk, Willam was high. That's the way things always were, but it really didn't matter to them. The only thing that mattered was the slide of Willam's lips down Courtney's throat, the way her teeth dug into her skin and made her hiss, a fake nail flying away as she raked her nails down Willam's back, catching on her still-on bra and yanking it back until it snapped into her skin, making her bite harder. The bra didn't stay on for very long, but the angry red lines down her back would, just like the marks Willam left scattered around her neck and chest, like the marks she left on Willam. They were just bruises, of course, little physical reminders of what happened when nobody was looking, painted in reds and blues and purples, but they didn't talk about that. The alcohol in Courtney's system and the myriad of intoxicants in Willam's didn't allow for much conversation, only hands and lips and teeth and skin on skin on skin. Willam's breath was hot against Courtney's ear, and her hand was tight and perfect around her.

 

The funny thing was, when it came down to it, Willam and Courtney both knew that the party had to stop someday. They both knew they'd eventually find themselves without the stamina to stay in eight-inch heels until the night was over, without the stamina to travel from city to city with only a plane to sleep on. That much they knew, but for some reason, they both ignored it. They favored a shot instead of sitting down and thinking about what the future was going to be like - worrying was for the daytime, and as soon as the sun set, they were Courtney Act and Willam, two out of three of the AAA Girls, the Aussie and the slut, doing shots until the bartender was hesitant to give them more alcohol, smoking in back alleys behind clubs until they couldn't stop giggling and didn't know what city they were in anymore. The pillows were always soft in hotel rooms - that much was guaranteed, at least. That much was the same.

 

The pillows were soft against her skin, and cool, keeping her anchored even as she felt the entire world twisting around her. Willam's skin was hot, her breath was hot, the way she kept looking up at Courtney from under her lashes with that drunk grin, lipstick smeared across her chin (and on her thigh, surely) was fucking _hot_. Her mouth was hotter and _wetter_ , and when she closed her lips around Courtney, she mewled, back arching and fingers curling into the soft, cool pillows. Her wig was sliding, pins losing their grip where they had somehow managed to hold all night. This was regular - Willam's lips were closed tight around Courtney, sucking her off, and her name fell from Courtney's lips over and over like a plea, a desperate attempt to ask the world to stop just for a little while, just for her, so she could hold on to this memory like a little gem. She wouldn't remember, most likely, not after she'd taken so many shots that heels hadn't been an option anymore and she could hardly keep her eyes open. The way she gasped Willam's name when she came down her throat would be whisked away on the fingers of the night, another barely-there memory that made her cheeks go pink when she thought about it.

 

So she didn't. Neither of them did. The way Willam's voice broke on her plea for _fuck, more, please_ would be forgotten like it was nothing, and when fragments of tossed-aside panties and shirts came back to them in the morning, they'd push them aside like spam emails - everyone acknowledged them, and the fact that they existed, but it was an unspoken rule of sorts to quietly push them to the side and never quite accept or reject them. Such was the way of life, and such was the way of whatever happened between those two dark lamps, never to be turned on lest they face the inevitable.

 

That was another thing they had in common, the fear of the morning. Morning meant responsibilities, morning meant having to get up and do real adult things, morning meant hangovers and the barely-noticeable but still bitter taste of regret at the very back of everyone's mouth. Regret for everything, regret for every shot she'd taken past being drunk, for every hit Willam had taken past being stoned, for every kiss and touch and every single discarded article of clothing to be collected. The regret didn't manifest in the two of them having long, heartfelt conversations, or vowing never to do anything again, but instead in the way they fell asleep in two separate beds at night and didn't speak other than joking around during the day. They handled it all the same, too - more alcohol, more drugs, more meaningless trade in more foreign cities. More to regret.

 

Regret was a funny thing, really, in that it made smiles seem smaller and under-eye circles seem darker - but what couldn't a little concealer and lipstick fix? Plus, on the nights where that didn't seem to do the trick (which ended up being almost every night, but neither of them would admit it), alcohol was always readily available. Drugs, too - Willam had a way of finding whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. More often than not, every night that they spent touring the world was spent hopped-up on drugs they didn't even know where they came from, drunk off five-too-many shots, and between those two fateful lamps that stayed off.

 

Everyone saw the marks. Everyone knew. There were no secrets, not when they stumbled into a dark hotel room together, connected at the lips, but nobody talked about it. That much stayed the same. Neither Courtney nor Willam wanted to face things in the morning, so they lied to themselves and didn't look back at the lamps that judged nothing but saw all, somehow in every hotel room they shared, framing every bed they shared until it was time to sleep. Those lamps and the varying shades of tan carpeting, and the armchair in the corner that always caught an article of clothing or two. Just like Willam and Courtney, they were different in lots of little ways, but at their core, they were all the same. Just like every night, every time they found themselves waking up with the remnants of last night's makeup on their faces, last night's wigs and outfits discarded on the floor - it was all the same, despite being in a new city or a different room. Regret always tasted the same, no matter what continent they were on, but so did each other's kiss. So nothing changed. Courtney and Willam were very similar in a lot of ways, and one of them was that they didn't like change, not when the taste of regret in the backs of their mouths was too familiar to ever really get rid of.


End file.
